


Empire

by Dusty_Forgotten (DustyForgotten)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, BDSM, Inspired by Music, M/M, Prostitution, Sugar Daddy, Total Power Exchange
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 02:36:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13226361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DustyForgotten/pseuds/Dusty_Forgotten
Summary: If Kylo were to ask what Hux really wanted out of this arrangement, the answer would be simple: a willing hole.





	Empire

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a [this prompt](https://dustyforgotten.tumblr.com/post/151819673442/ds-modern-au-hux-is-an-overworked-and-isolated) and [Empire by Of Monsters and Men](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H2lzxGcbz-g).

The interior design is sharp, if not a touch opulent for fifth-house on the left suburbia. Glass top dining table, chandelier and china cabinet, black wood framing white carpet— Kylo feels like he shouldn’t touch anything, because he always breaks nice things. The colour spectrum in this house covers a wide range of grey, including the attire of the homeowner: grey vest and slacks on a white shirt, collar open but cuffs buttoned, offset by the outstanding red of his hair, glossy as his black shoes. Sling a matched blazer intentionally casual over one shoulder and call Burlington Coat Factory; they’d have a new face for the ad campaign.

His eyes scutter across the page, from letterhead to signature. “Kylo Ren is not your real name, then?” 

“No,” he concurs, glancing at the white upholstery and wondering if he’d be less uncomfortable sitting down. “It’s Ben, but I haven’t used that in years.”

“Likewise. My given name is Armitage, but I’m quite proud of my family name; I often go by that.”

“So,” Kylo hesitates, “what should  _ I _ call you?”

Glancing over the sheet, “For now, Hux.” He lays the paper out on his monochrome marble counter before rounding it. His walk is less like a runway model, and more like the casting call for a soap opera. “Let’s talk money, shall we?”

Kylo nods, agreeably.

“I’m prepared to offer the sum of two hundred dollars per week. Objectively, that may seem short, especially considering the work, but keep in mind that all your living expenses will be covered. Boarding, insurance, medical, recreational— everything.”

Eight hundred dollars a month. Eight  _ hundred _ dollars a  _ month _ seems  _ short _ to him. What kind of money is this guy making?

“That amount is not accounting for interest. After your first month, what you’ve thus-far earned will go into a short-term certificate of deposit, with terms and interest rate increasing the longer you remain in my employ. You can imagine how exponentially that can multiply.”

Kylo’s brows crunch together as he tries to remember those required high school math credits. He nods, slowly, to avoid looking as incompetent as he feels.

“We’re in agreement, then?”

Choosing words carefully, “Yes, that seems… That’s great.”

Hux stares for a second, unmoving but his even breathing and eventual narrowing of the eyes. “Right,” he says, dismissive, with a gesture to follow and an easy retreat. The front door looms down the hall he leads like a rejection letter. Kylo was foolish to think he had a chance at the job; he’s never had a kind of income he could tell the IRS about, and that doesn’t change just because he  _ technically _ has the credentials an online advertisement asked for.

Hux parts a pair of pocket doors to the left, previously unnoticed among the same shade of white as the walls. Kylo blinks against the sting of smooth smoke, opens on a room that seems too old for the home he’s seen otherwise: walls and floors all done in dark wood, a backdrop of velvet curtains, a pair of leather wingbacks on a traditional rug.

“Well? Come in,” Hux hurries. “This is a smoking room, and I don’t want the smell permeating.”

Always a follower, quick to obey, Kylo ducks inside, and feels strangely trapped by the doors shutting behind him.

“Have a seat,” Hux says, brushing by. He ignores both of the chairs for the time being, leaving Kylo the decision of which to take. Eventually he settles on the one to his right, so while Hux is at an in-built bar on the side wall, he doesn’t quite have Kylo’s  back.

“Can I get you anything?” he asks, stirring something on the counter.

Kylo debates the pros and cons of alcohol in a stressful situation, and remembers his father’s AA badge. Besides, he’s not here socially. “No, thank you.”

He drops the stirring spoon clamorously into a dip well, taps it on as he turns, and frowns. “I expect you to be frank with the both of us, because this isn’t going to work otherwise.”

The faucet shuts itself off, leaving them in the air-conditioned silence.

“… Black russian?” Kylo chances.

He smiles just the slightest, turning back to the bar; no verbal response. A drink appears on one of the marble coasters guarding the corners of a carved end table, and then another— some whiskey cocktail— on its twin. A crystal ashtray sits just offset from the shade of a banker’s lamp. Hux lights down, and looks at Kylo, lowball glass in his left hand. No wedding ring, no tan lines.

He takes a sip, sets it down. Holds out his hand in a manner well-practiced. Kylo’s practically swallows it.

“Armitage Hux,” he introduces formally.

“Kylo Ren— or, uh. Ben Solo.”

“Can I call you Ren?” the man asks, retracting his hand and crossing his legs.

“Sure, yeah.”

“Well, Ren,” he starts, looking suspiciously like an interviewer, “I’m thirty-four years old, quite the confirmed bachelor, more than  _ moderately _ successful stock trader, and self-proclaimed narcissist.”

“Doesn’t admitting it defeat the criteria for narcissism?”

“Not when you’re this brilliant.”

Kylo eyes his vodka and Kahlua. “… Touché.”

Hux takes a sip, Kylo mirroring the action automatically, and addends, “So, Ren. Tell me about yourself. Who are you, exactly?”

Black sheep, grown manchild, professional disappointment? He left home without even a GED because that teen rebellion hit hard, has bounced between bouncing and bussing, cash always under the table because he was scared to death his mother would hunt him down from the tax records. Eventually other things started happening under tables: now he’s brushing thirty and never picked up a skill more marketable than sucking cock. He’s got a face even his mother wanted to do something about, got off a felony on technicality, and fantasizes about literal sexual slavery because he’s been involved in so many dangerous, illegal, and fucked up fetishes, it’s all old hat by now.

“I see,” Hux says, with his judgemental eyes and unshakeable posture. “It’s irrelevant, I suppose. Do you have much experience in sex work or total power exchange?”

“Plenty,” he replies to the first, without considering the latter.

“Then I’m sure you’re qualified. Your scores were good, just what I like to see, and you can start immediately, is that correct?”

His “scores” are the last round of STD checks, a work release from some psychologist he’s never met before, stapled to his MBTI, and a print-out of four different interest quizzes linked in the email exchange they had to set this up. “I plan to pretty much drop everything for this.”

Hux’s eyes narrow, and though they stay firmly fixed on Kylo’s irises, he feels distinctly like he’s being evaluated. “You must not have much going for you…”

He averts his eyes while taking a drink, and there’s a twitch on his lip, which Kylo only notices, because it’s the first time his mouth’s moved without speaking. If there was a flicker of self-doubt, it’s gone now. “I’d like to have a look at you, then.”

Black Russian goes back to the coaster, and Kylo wrings his hands between his knees. “Yeah, sure.”

Chin juts toward the epicentre of the area rug’s radiating pattern, where the sightlines of the chairs converge. “On with it.”

This, he’s familiar with. Kylo wordlessly launches himself from the wingback, and strides to the spot. He digs fingers into the muscle of his shoulder, then grips his shirt by the back, pulls it over his head. Rolling his shoulders, he lets his hands trail down the sides of his torso, stop at the waistband, look back at his voyeur.

“How much do you weigh?”

“About one-eighty,” Kylo responds, bringing his hands to meet at the front of his jeans, over the zipper.

Hux utters only a “hm,” and sips his drink. Kylo opens his jeans, and lets them rest just below his ass. He turns to face him when they drop all the way, Kylo standing proud in his jockstrap.

Fingers drum over the glass. “Good hair. Terrible skin.” His brows twitch together. “Unique profile.” Like that, Hux is up, glass back on the table, down to the ice, beside Kylo’s hardly touched. “Fantastic. I’ll call to schedule a follow-up within the week; we can work out the details.”

He gathers his shirt from the floor, and is holding up his pants after a damn good striptease, and his john—  _ dom _ — is rushing him out. It’s a little insulting, and painfully expected. Kylo hobbles down the road, feeling like a street thug with one hand holding his pants up, the other still fighting with his shirt. It’s not a good look.

That night, Kylo celebrates actually going to the interview by treating himself to Golden Corral. He wipes his hands on two used napkins and still needs his pants before answering the burner going off in his pocket. He nearly tells the unknown contact to shove it, he’s retired, but that’s not official yet, and he can still quietly slide back into hooking if he needs to.

“Yeah?” he answers, the din of the restaurant under the words coming out his full mouth.

“ _ Yes, Kylo? _ ”

It’s a woman asking, and he’s remember working with that accent (he’s got a thing for Brits, as if Hux’s money and model face wasn’t enough to tick his boxes). “Yeah.”

“ _ I’m calling on behalf of Mr. Hux. Are you available Saturday afternoon? _ ”

Of course he is; he’s got nothing to do but Hux from now until bankruptcy.


End file.
